From the road
Dear Reader, I would like to propose something to you. For the campers among you, I believe you will be able to relate. If you are not a camper, allow me to elucidate.
Shea and I have now spent over a month reversing our Cub Camper rig into all manner of tight camp spots. Like our marriage, we refrain from choosing the ‘’easy button,” as my sister-in-law would observe; in car-camping lingo, we avoid the smooth simplicity of the ‘drive-through’ sites. Instead, we seek the plumb spots; Mountain Dad’s camp-dar tuned into the frequency of the site that offers the best privacy, outlook, shade, ground cover, kitchen situation, hammock set up, space and is generally able to provide a perfect living spot for the duration of our lives.
Never mind that we’re only there a night.
Like our marriage, like our life, we circle around and around a location, humming and hawing and deliberating on a decision while confident campers arrive after us and swiftly pull into sites before us. We gaze at them in stunned awe as, only when the in’s and out’s have been analysed from all vantages, can we ourselves commit.
And then, let the entertainment commence. For, my friends, it is not only the choice of site that takes a toll on the bank of marital patience, but the location, nay the very angle of our camper, that must be excruciatingly positioned. Like life, some factors are out of our control, for example requiring room above for the camper-top to swing up and out. Like life, some factors are made more complicated by our inability to let challenge daunt us. I blame Mountain Dad completely for this. We reversed into one site that was uphill and set amongst the boughs of low hanging peppermint tree’s. The camper had to go back and then angle to the left in order to give our kitchen space and have room to open. The space was so tight that it required a precision of driving and a military-level of collaborative logistics that Mountain Dad and I may not have been up for after a day of driving. The sun was setting on your undaunted heroes as we tackled this unique spot. I took a turn reversing, claiming that the roles we are best suited to see Shea directing and me driving (I have been known, when in directing role, to call out ‘Stop” after we have hit something). So, as the smell of others’ campfires wafted over us, I reversed while Mountain Dad sang out a mixed bag of “little left’s” and “little right’s.” We stopped. I climbed out of the car. We conversed. Analysed. I got back in the car and tried again. And again. The small slope we were navigating was such that I really had to ride the car’s clutch to keep control of our speed. When the tone of Shea’s directions devolved into grunts and when I saw that there were plumes of stinking black smoke billowing from under our bonnet, I stopped the car. And bailed out of my role, handing the keys to Mountain Dad in mortification. Perhaps I am better at giving the directions?
“I’ve smelt the clutch before, but I’ve never seen it smoke like that,” Shea noted as he climbed in and tackled the still unconquered sweet camping spot. A fellow camper strolled by to offer some unhelpful advice and then stayed to watch the circus. Interested observers, whether they’re offering helpful advice or not, is a facet of life that I am keenly aware gets Mountain Dad’s hackles up. Our kids seemed to vanish from the scene as I did my best to concisely call out clear directions, only to see the car and trailer move into absurd locations nowhere near where I had envisioned. It was dark by now and Shea and I were snapping irritably at each other, behaviour which of course helped the situation immensely.
Once upon a time, long ago when we were courting, Shea and I sat beside a pool in Palm Springs California in the quiet, warm darkness of the desert evening. He asked me what I thought the secret to successful relationships was. Having not really thought about it before and not having an answer I could really get behind, I asked what he thought was the secret to successful relationships.
“Communication,” he said with calm conviction into the darkness.
Sometimes I wonder friends, what that younger version of Shea would have thought of the communication we employ while reversing our Cubby Camper. Or, if he would have felt alarm at seeing us bellowing at each other while packing up our Newcastle House before readying ourselves for this trip. I was screeching at him from the front door of our house. He was roaring back at me from the car. We were communicating, but I’m not sure it was the kind that younger-Shea aspired to. Communication is something we are always striving to better. Amidst the stress of packing up our Newcastle life and leaving our beautiful schools and jobs and community, we had moments of crying communication, terse-snappish communication and some silent I’m-ignoring-you-can’t-you-see communication.
So you see, reversing this beautiful little ‘Cubby’ camper with our fabulous ‘Bilby’ car, really is a metaphor for our marriage. Sometimes we’re cross and flustered by the time we’ve parked up. Other times we nail it on the first go. With practice, we are getting better. We take turns at the roles and we’re learning a language of reversing that, while not perfect, means that we’re not giving up on our goal.
A mini cycling tour in the Nannup region with our dear friends Eliza, Paul, Xanthe and Jasper.
Eliza and I ocean swimming on Rottnest Island.
Inside our 'Cubby.'
Schoolwork at Sandy Point.
Schoolwork at North Lefroy, Ningaloo National Park
Overnight hike on the Cape to Cape track.
Camping under the tarp in the Cape to Cape track (left) and our mini-cycle tour in Nannup (right)
The trickiest spot to reverse into - note how close that branch is to our awning. Like threading a needle..
Comments